Over the river, and through the orchards

On the way to the doctor, we came up upon three troglodytes in a seasoned pickup, just as one of the hirsute passengers tossed out a beer can. I asked first born if we shouldn't observe the new "Squeal on Your Neighbors" policy which is growing in popularity. (To be fair, so far they've only talked about turning in DUIs.) She said, "Who would I call?"

"9-1-1?" I queried. "That's for emergencies, and I don't know the sheriff's regular number," she replied.

On the two-lane road, we were forced the follow the politically incorrect travelers for almost 20 miles, watching carefully for further aluminum missiles. Their thirst had apparently been slaked, or they may have wasted some of their beer money feeding their children. Actually, it's a scary thought that any of them might have reproduced.